


Cook a Small Fish Very Gently

by nisakomi



Series: The Odd Years: Junhui Birthday Series [2]
Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4203348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisakomi/pseuds/nisakomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junhui turns either twenty (Korean) or nineteen (internationally). It doesn't matter which because he's with family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cook a Small Fish Very Gently

**Author's Note:**

> 150624//originally posted to [livejournal](http://nisakomi.livejournal.com/49328.html#cutid1).
> 
> original notes:  
> -this is a work of fiction.  
> -i haven't written anything in a year, but i've been trying to work on on "showing" instead of "telling". it's forced me to write in a totally new style, and i'm not yet there. please bear with me, all mistakes are mine.  
> -man zeonfai is exactly 365 days younger than me. two years ago, after seven months of denying that i was a seventeen fan, i wrote zeonfai birthday fic and posted it exactly a month late. this year, i've been in seventeen fandom for 2.5 years and my zeonfai birthday fic is only 2 weeks late. who knows, maybe by the time seventeen celebrates their 2nd year anniversary, i'll actually post fic for him on time. happy belated birthday, 俊辉, 我的小文弟弟. i hope your career is long lived and prosperous, but more importantly, i wish for you to find happiness around every corner, and a reason to smile every day. may you always be strong and healthy in mind, body, and spirit.

 

 _“We can do anything. It’s not because_  
_our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we_  
_struggle with. The attempt to say Come over._  
_Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much.”_  
_― Richard Siken, **Crush**_

 

* * *

 

  
  
His birthday arrives silently sometime while he’s staring out at a flashing nightscape from the top of a hill in Seoul with an arm slung around Mingyu’s shoulders.  
  
Or, at least, that’s what Junhui surmises; they left the practice room sometime past 11:30. Finishing up practice anytime before midnight is a gift, really, considering the many nights they had stayed up to rehearse until sunrise. He’s painfully familiar with the feeling of being asleep the instant he closes his eyes, even before his boneless body hits the mattress, face still unwashed, all while his stomach rumbles (for breakfast? Second dinner? Midnight snack?). On those nights he walks around with his eyes more closed than opened, leaning heavily against another member, who leans back equally, his voice kept to a murmur if he can muster up anything to say at all. Tonight, however, he has the energy to cuff Mingyu into a headlock, give him a good noogie, and sprint down the street before Mingyu gives chase.  
  
"Come back here!" Mingyu yells. His voice fades with the wind, the distance, and the honking of car horns.  
  
Junhui whoops, the sound mixing with Mingyu’s indecipherable yelling and echoing in the dark streets, bouncing off the walls of people’s homes and filling the air around them with chaos that brings Junhui a sense of peace. The others, too, catch the infectious mirth, opening up to tease and prod each other, laughing, pouting, and laugh-pouting. They're all awake, eyes wide open, and alive, hearts pounding, air filling their lungs and whooshing out of their bodies with each yelp and chuckle. They're all awake now, but tomorrow will start dark and early, with a wake up call at three in the morning, before the world has risen, in order for them to paint on their best faces and greet the world ready for anything.  
  
For now, they jostle each other in the entry way, pushing each other against the railings, and hip-checking each other against walls. Their voices, despite Seungcheol’s best efforts to hush them, reverberate around the stairwell in an upward spiral following them all the way into their dorm rooms. It takes three people to organize all of their shoes but only one person haphazardly toeing theirs off to create disarray again. Like this, the thirteen of them file in, some charging toward the cabinets for snacks, or for a cool drink of water and others slinking into seats and massaging their legs. Junhui lies down directly on the floorboards, cooling his back and leg muscles. The lamp above his head fills his vision with dancing blobs. He lets his eyes become unfocused and listens to the muffled stamping of socked feet and loud scraping of chairs.  
  
One of Minghao's thin, pointy kneecap digs into his waist. Junhui squawks with his entire body, convulsing dramatically, and turns his head with a toothy grin to watch Minghao drop down into a sitting position beside him. Minghao’s legs are sprawled out in a V, and his weight rests behind him on the palms of his hands. The end of his ulna bone juts out even with his hand bent, the protrusion obvious against thin wrists that shouldn't be able to support the rest of him. Junhui's mother often tells Junhui that he needs to eat more because he's growing, but she would tire herself out trying to feed and plump up Minghao, who is thin all over - thin face, thin thighs, thin arms, thin body - so thin there can't be much physical weight that bears down those lean, lean hands.  
  
A long thin finger reaches out from one of those hands and taps Junhui's shoulder, somewhere by his ear. Junhui stops staring at dip above Minghao's collarbone and slides his attention towards Minghao's large, round eyes. Minghao maintains eye contact, but lifts his chin to point at the clock on the wall. Junhui blinks once before drawing his line of sight down from Minghao's eyes to his nose, his mouth, finally his sharply angled chin, and then slowly lifting his head up to look at the time. Right. Past midnight, now the tenth day in the sixth month.  
  
Soonyoung, who's sitting with his knees drawn up and back against a wall, pauses from scratching at his scalp and shaking out coarse, bleached blond hair to look between them, up at the clock, and then again at them. His mouth opens and his eyes crinkle. Before he even says anything, Junhui thunks his head back down on the floor, closes his eyes, and groans.  
  
"Hey everyone," Soonyoung calls out, scrambling up into a kneeling position, "it's officially...our China-Wushu-Joonhee-hyung's birthday!"  
  
First it's just a swat on the knee, then gentle smacks into his stomach and ruffling of his hair, before it finally devolves, as expected, into a dog pile on top of him, with each person joining the mountain knocking more air out of him until there's so many people, it doesn't matter that he's raised his hands up in surrender. Whoever is right on top of him is mumbling curses into his ear, and somewhere further up, one loud yelp is heard above everyone else's cheering and shouts congratulating him on his birthday.  
  
"You were going to say long-haired, right?" Jeonghan asks, standing somewhere behind Junhui's head with a crinkling bag of potato snacks in his hand. Junhui can hear it crunching in his mouth, as well as the laughter in his voice. He and Jisoo have managed to safely avoid being thrown in with the others.  
  
Something digs into one of Junhui's ribs and hair tickles his chin, revealing that the body on him belongs to Soonyoung.  
  
"I forgot his hair is short now. It's weird," Soonyoung mutters hoarsely. With a forceful wiggle, he yanks his right arm out from under someone's armpit and pats Junhui's entire face.  
  
Junhui grimaces, half coughs, and tries kicking out a leg. It sends Seokmin squealing and tumbling off the top of their heap, knocking someone's elbow into one of Wonwoo's eyes.  
  
Amidst the indignant slapping and screaming, Seungkwan's voice squeaks out, "Don't worry angel-hyung, there's no need to feel threatened, I still find you the prettiest."  
  
Jeonghan snorts but when Junhui opens one eye to peek up at him, he's smiling, and playfully whipping back his ponytail.  
  
"What are you trying to say about me?" Junhui demands without real venom. He still uses the last of his energy reserves to shove as hard as possible and push everyone off of him who isn't already grumbling and getting up. The crowd disperses, with Chan scuttling behind Jeonghan back into the kitchen for food, Wonwoo and Mingyu disappearing into the bathroom to wash up, while Seokmin has returned with a pillow to smack anyone who gets near enough. Things quieten eventually and Junhui breathes deeply, circulating blood back into all his limbs and phalanges.  
  
With some trepidation, Junhui stops squeezing his other eye shut, and looks up and out over their living room. Minghao's socked left foot is resting against his shin and he gets toe poked.  
  
"That was fun," Minghao says in that consistently bright voice of his, the Korean distinct from anyone else in the group.  
  
"Maybe for you, Xiao Ba," Junhui grumbles.  
  
"But it's _your_ birthday," Minghao says. "Don't you have a wish?"  
  
The question brings Junhui back several months ago before they debuted, before their debut was even close, before he dared to consider the word debut - back when Minghao was still a stranger in terms of body language and inside jokes, distanced despite some conscious effort on everyone’s parts to be kind to the new member. Cognitive empathy didn't translate when Minghao had just joined recently rather than spending the two and a half years in semi-limbo like the rest of them (or six if you were Seungcheol), perpetually uncertain of the future, and of past and current choices alike.  
  
Further, the loss of Mingming from their midst was still a raw wound that stung Junhui at the briefest of touches. The two of them had spent so much of their time together, their emotions and efforts together, until they were quietly dependent on the other being there. Bringing in a new Chinese trainee, no matter the circumstances, felt like Minghao was supposed to be a replacement. The same 'Ming' of ‘tomorrow’ and ‘understanding’, but fundamentally different people.  
  
Junhui spent the first days, weeks, maybe months, deigning Minghao with less patience than he could have, and treating him with a sharp kind of curiosity, jabbing at places where he knew it would hurt but pretending it was all in good fun. Those moments make him feel small now, especially as he grows another year older, lacking the maturity he should really have had. In the end, Minghao was sweet, charming, and had an endearing witty humour to him. His attitude and ability to never stop smiling dissolved whatever reluctance or hesitance Junhui had put up as a barrier.  
  
If you asked Junhui at this present moment, he wouldn't trade Mingming for Minghao, but he wouldn't trade Minghao for Mingming either. They're two separate people, both precious younger brothers that, for different reasons, he treasured.  
  
Back then, however, they had sat in one of the practice rooms like they sit now, only in reverse. Minghao had collapsed after their previous run through for choreography, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt so that it clung to the floorboards where he lay, shoulder blades pressed downward and chest heaving.  
  
"If we're working this hard," Minghao began, pausing to pant, "there has to be an end result right?" He took another deep, body-shuddering breath, and asked Junhui, "Don't you wish we could debut already?"  
  
Minghao is willing to wait for everyone else in the band to use the bathroom before him, and doesn't check the clock constantly when he boils water for instant noodles. He isn't an impatient person, but talk about debuting had quietly become taboo for most of the members who practice patience without question. Junhui, for his part, was uncertain how he came to be where he was, churning out extra practice hours when he was initially only supposed to help tutor Korean. That task led to the two of them spending more time together than Minghao did with most other members, so that by the time Junhui had considered refusing to take Minghao under his wing, Minghao was already firmly planted beneath his arm, head poking out and arms clinging to the safe space to grow. Not that Junhui's hand wasn't wrapped firmly around Minghao's shoulder, as he let Mandarin roll off his tongue and into the ears of someone who understood what he was trying to articulate even when ideas became complex. The words returned always felt like the lyrics and melody of a folk tune he heard as a child, friendly, familiar, and uplifting.  
  
This one question, however, was a sudden cacophony of loud and misplaced notes, like a twisting motion of the knife in his gut, a reminder of the soreness he had learned to live with for which he no longer worried about treatment, and the possibility for an instrument to make noise rather than music when struck in a certain way.  
  
Of course Junhui wanted to debut. Of course all of them wanted to debut. More than anything in the world. There was very little each of them would not give up to finally move up from the small internet streamed stages of cover songs and dances to live broadcast with their own music. Their was very little each of them hadn't already given up. His own sacrifices included losing the privilege of watching his younger brother grow up. Slowly, he had become a stranger to all the friends and family he once had, from the child they were proud to say they knew, who would one day be famous, to the forgotten one who was hidden away in a country they had never visited.  
  
That day, Junhui got up, pressed play, and said, "Okay, again."  
  
This day, Junhui's greatest wish has already been fulfilled. This day, Junhui gets up, answers, "I don't know," in Chinese, and follows up with, "Just, be happy," in Korean.  
  
When he reaches the bathroom, Hansol cheerfully squeezes out toothpaste for Junhui even though it takes a considerable effort.  
  
"Happy nineteenth birthday hyung," he says.  
  
Junhui looks at him with a raised eyebrow while sticking his toothbrush into his mouth and running it against his teeth.  
  
Hansol spits into the sink, uses the hand that's not holding his brush to pull back his hair from his face, and grins at Junhui.  
  
"International age you’re nineteen, right? In China don't they use that too?"  
  
Junhui spits, nods, nods and says, "Oh yeah, in international age you'd be seventeen?"  
  
Hansol grins at him through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. "Yup." The 'P' releases bubbles into the air and leaves toothpaste all around Hansol's mouth. Hansol splutters, and Junhui nearly chokes on his own spit from laughing.  
  
He's twenty, according to Korean age, and he's internalized that for when people ask or when he fills out forms. He's trained himself out of considering international age, which doesn't help him when he's trying to integrate into Korean culture. For the most part he's stopped thinking in Chinese and translating into Korean when he speaks, and these days most of his dreams are in Korean as well. But Hansol is half-Korean and still that doesn't mean society as a whole accepts him anymore than someone fully Chinese who's been taught a few tricks and can speak their language. Hansol grew up with the culture though, and he understands it in a way that Junhui will never be able to internalize. Hansol's simply absorbed two different sets of customs, languages, attitudes, behaviours, and traditions into his one self. At the same time, neither group has completely absorbed Hansol. Whether his experience is the better end of the stick or not, Junhui couldn't say. Nor does he know what Jisoo, who waves at him with a sleepy smile when Junhui walks back through the living room to find his bed, combats on a day-to-day basis culturally.  
  
Jihoon is nearly squashed when Junhui opens the door to the bedroom, having curled up in a lump on the floor, too tired to make it the three steps to the open mattress. For months Jihoon's had the most work out of them all, and Junhui feels both guilt and pain regarding the pressure and stress of having thirteen individuals' futures placed on the shoulders of just one person. He lifts Jihoon up, and staggers over to a bed with him, drawing a blanket up to Jihoon's chin. The feeling of putting one of his twelve younger brothers to bed is not unlike tucking in _his_ younger brother at night.  
  
He takes his phone with him after changing into pyjamas, turning off the lights, and then crossing the room to go to sleep himself. The green glow of the WeChat screen is the only illumination in the room. There's a splattering of messages, including one from Mingming that's just a teddy bear emoticon with candles on his sunglasses and confetti in the background. Junhui sends back an emoticon of a shivering kitten. His mother's left him a voice message and asks about a time for a video call.  
  
Junhui falls asleep after dropping his cell phone on his face, lulled by the sounds of Jihoon and Wonwoo's soft snoring. He sleeps easily, passing the early hours of his first birthday in Korea where he doesn't miss home. With an officially debuted Seventeen, his bandmates, his housemates, his roommates, his teammates under one roof living together, eating together, working together, achieving their dreams together – this is home. This is family.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from a Chinese proverb: govern a family as you would cook a small fish – very gently.


End file.
